


Blessed Are The Pure In Heart

by janearts



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 19:24:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17607449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janearts/pseuds/janearts
Summary: Back in Skyhold, Morowa Trevelyan and Mother Giselle have a conversation after Here Lies the Abyss. Just wanted to write some angst at 3am.





	Blessed Are The Pure In Heart

‘I do not see you here often,’ observed Mother Giselle as she walked up the aisle towards the lone figure sitting on one of the pews in the dusk of the empty chapel.

‘No,’ Morowa replied in a slow drawl. She didn’t need to turn her head to know who was speaking to her—she’d recognise that Orlesian accent anywhere. ‘I don’t reckon you do.’

‘”From the Fade I crafted you, / And to the Fade you shall return / Each night in dreams / That you may always remember me.” I am glad you have returned to us from the Fade once more.’

In the dim light she thought she heard the Inquisitor’s breath hitch. Ever since the woman, with eyes dark and flashing like a summer thunderstorm, had proudly barrelled her way to her camp outside Redcliffe, Mother Giselle had not once seen her buckle, not once seen her bend, not once seen her break. She bore the weight of the world like a colossus and with a face just as stony, set immutably into a stern frown as if to say, “Your ways and your deeds have brought these things to you. This is _your_ evil.”

As she sat herself down beside the Inquisitor, the Revered Mother did not let her eyes linger too long upon Morowa’s face, but a mere glance told her all that she needed to know. Morowa’s narrowed eyes were riveted straight ahead, as if to stare down the statue of Andraste to its knees, and her jaw was set.

Mother Giselle likewise faced straight ahead to afford Morowa greater privacy. ‘This path the Maker has put you on is not an easy one, Inquisitor.’

‘The _Maker_ ,’ rang Morowa’s brusque voice, impassioned, ‘does not exist.’

Mother Giselle would have thought her eyes cold and unfeeling had she not known how hurt the beaten heart beat beneath.

‘That woman that people claim pulled me out of the Fade? Not Andraste. Not Justinia, even. Just a spirit. A plain, ole spirit. Put on Justinia’s face like one of your Orlesian masks, then took it off again, easy as that.’

And then Morowa turned her face sharply to Mother Giselle and her words had a knife’s edge to them:

‘”Violently were they cast down, / For _no mortal_ may walk bodily / In the realm of dreams”—now init that a daisy? ‘Cause I could have sworn I saw not one, not two, but a grand total of six lowly mortals trot on through the Fade. The Chant of Light is a chant of lies we tell ourselves. Just like the lies you let people tell themselves on that mountainside.’

All this Mother Giselle patiently endured and after Morowa turned her face back towards the statue, she spoke softly. ‘”And then the Maker sealed the gates / Of the Golden City / And there, He dwelled, waiting / To see the wonders / His children would create.” The Chantry is our creation, Inquisitor, and it has many flaws. It is not monolithic; it is a patchwork quilt, made of many pieces. We repair the work done by those who have come before us, and sometimes, we lose threads to time and age. That a spirit gave you no straight answers does not tear this quilt apart nor does the absence of the Maker, for the Chant of Light tells us that He turned from us long ago.’

It was a while before Morowa responded, her tone changed:

‘It would have been nice if he were real. It would have been nice knowing that there was someone out there, watching over us. He’s supposed to be a father, ain’t He? But what kind of father abandons their child? I wish He were real, just so I could really hate Him.’ Her lips curled to bare teeth, but the anger in her mouth was belied by the hurt in her eyes. ‘ _And I **do** hate Him_.’

‘It is easy to hate what we do not know, what we do not completely understand. But know that you are precious to Him, even if He is invisible to your eyes. You have safely walked the paths of this world and the next; the Veil holds no uncertainty for you; you know no fear of death; there has been a light for you in the darkness. This is the benediction of the Maker, though you may call it by another name. Fate, perhaps, or maybe Luck.’

Morowa was silent in her grief and Mother Giselle reached out to pat her hand, ‘I will leave you to your thoughts. Your doubts are those that we all must face, each in our own way in our own time.’

She got up and turned to leave.

‘Mother Giselle?’

‘Yes, Morowa?’

‘Do not speak of this to anyone,’ her glaring eyes looked out as fingers brushed away the tears below, ‘They’d only want to help. And I’d hate them all the more for it. I’d hate them more than I hate the Maker.’

‘I will not speak a word of it to any soul. This,’ she gestured to the chapel at large, ‘is a place for you to find your Maker. Alone, if you wish it. Good night, Inquisitor.’


End file.
